Passion
by Wanagi Moon
Summary: "I am." The Daughters have their hobbies... and their reasons.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Daughters Of The Moon_.

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i.

_since mother's departure ink is my blood_

I am, amongst everything else, a spirit of words, sentences, letters. In eighth grade I was introduced to Sylvia Plath, angst and joy spilled across pages and pages. Articulating my thoughts had been an unpleasant journey, even considering my telepathic powers; how can one properly and coherently detail the rawness of one's heart, or how rotten the core of it becomes – like an apple hidden between coils of leaves and branches on an apple tree?

_My spirit was golden glitter_, I was once wrote, my small, child hand meekly gripping the pen as my heart desperately searched for the words needed to convey the ache flooding my veins. _And like the dawn, the glimmer of sunlight has set into black ash_.

That was my soul; pieces of me incoherently yet rhythmically staining the paper with my adolescent anguish and bitter truths.

After experiencing the delights of poetry, my cello practice intensified, for I found thoughts could find themselves nestled deeply within music. My instructor at the time had teased, "Looks like you're finally taking your lessons seriously."

The dawn slumbers, yet the night kisses my temple.

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ii.

_i am a tree, my roots are my home, my shelter_

Miranda was a pretty little girl, a mess of black locks and dimples burrowed into her cheeks; her laugh was like the tinkle of a small bell.

I know they thought I was cocky, too "protective." All of them, even still, perhaps. Serena sometimes found me "overbearing." Collin once mocked my "bossiness." Stanton eyes me smugly, amused with me.

I never prided myself on my toughness. Necessarily. I need it. It _is_ me. Loving is more than hugs and kisses, embraces and intimate laughter. Loving means sacrifice. Loving means building your family – and making _damn_ certain its roots don't rot and crack. Loving is watching your grandmother scrap up the bare minimum to care for her brash, thoughtless, difficult granddaughter. Love is tucking your childhood friend's memory deep within the chambers of your thoughts; if you forget, she is lost forever.

I love – I love more intensely than one can imagine. My love is not "tough," it is loyalty and it is my blood and my flesh and my bones.

Love can never be overprotective. I built love from the very bottom, from the moment I accepted Serena to the moment I nearly suffocated in the icy grasp of the Cold fire.

I will never stop building a home for my love, because love is family and family is forever – even six inches beneath the dirt.

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iii.

_when i bruise the blood is a letter to my humanity_

Catty once asked why I loved dangerous sports, and I had responded, "Because it gets your adrenaline going."

Of course life is adrenaline. Love is fire, smoldering and unpredictable, a maker of its own destiny. Family is soul. Friends are home.

Why seek danger when danger had crashed through your front door, murdering your parents and your younger sister? Your life crumpled, a storm spilling against the banks of the blue rivers flourishing beneath your skin

In truth the wounds, the bruises, the blood... The _hurt_ was the sensation I desired.

I am human when my skin flushes purple and red. I am human when my alien face – too perfect for this reality – is scarred, my teeth chipped, my eye swollen. I am human when I crash and burn, when the flaming pain blazes wildly against my flesh.

I am human when death becomes a mere friend knocking at my door, asking to come in. I am a mere mortal and this life will end someday.

But not today.

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iv.

_paint is messy and it shakes my bones_

My studio is my bedroom, a canvas perched in the corner; sunlight pouring through the window and blanketing me in a vibrant warmth.

Splatters of red and pink and green stain my jeans; my nimble fingers are marked with a plethora of colors – orange, yellow, white, blue. My brown hair is wrapped in a tangled bun atop my head.

"You're a mess!" Kendra remarks as she passes by my door.

I grin.

I am a mess. I feel it in my bones, like a ghost digging up the structure; it wants in, it wants my body, it wants me, it wants _everything_.

Temptation. I _want_.

"Father" was right. I am a predator. I am not a Goddess. I am not even a Follower.

I am a mess, a polarizing force raging within my insides.

I can smile, I can laugh, I can tease Vanessa and dance with Tianna, yet dusk is always there to greet me in the end, and I have known for quite some time:

Whether I am a Goddess or a Fallen Goddess, a Guardian Spirit or a mortal, my only savior will be the blackness of forever as I close my eyes once and for all.

I am a mess, I am so scared, and I can only paint while I wait for this night to end.

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v.

_don't at look me, please listen to me, shh _

"You're an amazing singer," they congratulate.

I smile and nod, I say, "Thank you." I blush.

In these moments I want to disappear; separate my molecules and dance through the wind, alone with myself. Freedom.

"You're beautiful," they say, stunned.

I smile and I flush red and I tilt my head.

I say, "Thank you," and then I try to temper my powers as they begin to emerge from their slumber, demanding release.

I want to remain human. I don't want to be a freak, but I want to vanish, too.

When I am on stage, I am not Vanessa Cleveland nor a person nor a woman. I am a congregation of words, lyrics, a voice, a whisper, a scream. I can hear myself yet I cannot see myself, and nobody can see me. They are listening – all other senses have fallen backward. There is no stage, there is no audience.

I melt into the music, and even though I am invisible, I am not a freak.


End file.
